our old trail to the lake, Hubbard decapitated
a duck with a rifle bullet, and we went into camp with high hopes of
more food in the way of fish. Hubbard's rod was hopelessly broken, so
he took mine, now much wound with linen thread, but, still usable if
not very pliable, and while I made camp and George prepared the duck
for luncheon, he caught twenty trout of fair size, which caused our
spirits to run high.

Luncheon over, Hubbard resumed his fishing, and I stole away with my
rifle along the marshes in the hope of seeing a caribou. When I
returned towards dusk without having sighted any game, I found a stage
over the fire and George hanging up trout to dry. Hubbard, it
appeared, had caught ninety-five more. Our exultation knew no bounds.
We had not dreamed of any such catch as that. By remaining in camp and
fishing another day, we should, at this rate, be able to dry nearly
enough trout to see us through to Lake Disappointment.

We were as happy and as free from care as children. Our great success
here made us feel sure that down below, where we had caught so many
fish on our inbound journey, we should again get plenty--all we should
need, in fact--and our safety seemed assured. We admitted we had felt
doubts as to the outcome, which we had not expressed out of
consideration for one another. But now we felt we could look forward
to reaching home as a certainty. And, feeling freer to indulge our
fancies, our talk at once returned to the good things we were going to
eat.

Sunday, the 27th, was warm and clear, with a southwest wind, and
everything seemed favourable for more fish. For breakfast we ate the
last of our goose, and for luncheon trout entrails and roe. While
George and I were drying fish during the forenoon, Hubbard caught fifty
more. One big fellow had sores all over his body, and we threw it
aside. Towards noon the fish ceased to rise, the pool probably being
fished out. After luncheon I again left camp with my rifle in the vain
hope of sighting a caribou.

The gloom of night was beginning to gather when I returned. As I
approached, stepping noiselessly on the mossy carpet of the forest, I
saw Hubbard sitting alone by the bright-burning fire, mending his
moccasins. Something in his attitude made me pause. He was
bareheaded, and his long, unkempt hair hung half way down to his
shoulders. As he sat there in the red glow of the fire, with the
sombre woods beyond and the lonely stretch of